When the cup we pass around
the table
grows cold with doubt’s tears
and our empty souls
keep feasting on the moldy bread of fear–you come.
Pouring new sweet wine, forever bubbling generously
over the sides of our expectations.
and serve fresh bread from the banquet table of your papa, the king.

So glad you are here. Feel free to share in the comments.

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.